


blue

by fruitlouis



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, military!louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 01:45:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruitlouis/pseuds/fruitlouis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>this is simply a quick little harry-centric oneshot that features military!louis in honor of all the troops overseas</p>
            </blockquote>





	blue

Harry used to like the color blue, but that was before it stole away the treasure he held closest to his heart, the one he kept nestled deep inside his chest right next to his thumping heartstrings. The churning waves carried Louis, his precious gem, further and further away, depositing him onto foreign soil where gunshots echo through the air and death is much more common than birth. Or love. Love is extremely scarce in the war-torn countries, with bullet holes ripping through people’s hearts, leaving gaping holes behind that will never be filled. Once you’ve lost someone, nothing is ever the same.

Personally, Harry thinks the whole matter could be fixed (or at least somewhat fixed) with a long talk where one man waits for the other to speak; participating in the kind of hushed argument that he and Louis have over what type of bread to buy each week. Harry likes thick brown slices with seeds dotting the crust while Louis always begs for the stark white bread with a flaky cinnamon swirl in the center. One boy will try to hide a smug smile as they drive to the grocery, having achieved what he wanted. But when the other isn’t looking, the victor will carefully slip a loaf of whatever the loser desires into the rattling cart. And the loser will pretend not to notice as his choice of bread sneaks down the sticky checkout belt and is paid for, but will press a small, sweet kiss to the other’s temple. Harry thinks the warring countries need this kind of compromise. 

However, Harry knows that even if a compromise comes (which it never will), Louis will still be far away in some ripped apart country that’s strewn with empty bullet shells and splashes of blood and graffit because that’s just who Louis is: a hero of the worst best kind. The constant need to help someone, to save someone, to give his life for someone, is ingrained in every one Louis’ cells; it is what pumps his heart, what flows through his bloodstream. He lives best though others, breathing from their lungs and settling himself into their skin as if it was his own body, and Harry knows this. But some days Harry just wants to grip Louis’ elfin face in-between his two hands and screamscreamscream that he’s the one who needs saving because he’s going fucking crazy living alone in their lonely cold empty flat without a pair of shining blue eyes to wake up to each morning. But Harry can’t do that, because Louis isn’t there. 

Anything remotely blue was banished from Harry’s life after Louis left their quietsafewonderful home, the discarded items ranging from azure teacups with minuscule cracks twisting across their handles to the beryl-tinted wallpaper that smothered the walls that hold all of their secrets. The walls that listen to Harry’s forlorn cries each night as he lies folded into an impenetrable ball of loneliness, the walls that make their bedroom seem too big for one broken soul. The walls that breathe with Harry and Louis as they made tender love to each other whenever Louis returns home, the walls that gasp sharply with Harry whenever he discovers a new scar stretching itself taut across Louis’ tanned flesh. The walls that surround the couple, packaging the two in an ornate box of their own love. 

The first month is always the worst. Sharp knives of longing and desire viciously stab at Harry’s already mangled heart, inhibiting him from even leaving their his empty flat. He spends his days as a permanent fixture of the couch or cold bed, a jumper scented with cinnamon, wood-smoke and sugar always pressed to his nose. Sometimes, if Harry closes his eyes and breathes in deeply enough, he can imagine Louis slouched on the couch opposite him covered in a nubby blanket, glasses sliding down his thin nose and his hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea. But more often than not, Harry can barely grasp the fleeting image of Louis before it escapes him, the military fatigues always lingering just out of reach.

The next few months are better, and the massive weight of melancholy and longing that constantly presses against Harry’s heart somewhat lessens. Its iron grip doesn’t clench so tightly at the sight of anything vaguely tinted blue or at any of the fading pictures that line the cold mantle, and less pillowcases are sodden with tears in the morning. Harry goes out a bit more, making small excursions to the corner store, but always taking two left turns instead of one left and a right because that way passes the café where they shared bowls of pasta engulfed in creamy marina sauce and chunks of mozzarella each Saturday evening at precisely eight p.m. He doesn’t need a reminder of another broken tradition.

Mornings aren’t the same without someone to bump hips with while scorching eggs at the stove and grumbling about the weather. Making fluffy buttermilk pancakes isn’t the same without Louis peering over Harry’s broad shoulder and swiping chocolate chips from the creamy batter as if he thinks Harry is blind to the hand dipping repeatedly into the blue plastic bowl. The laundry loads are much smaller, without the mass of assorted quilts and blankets used daily, each spotted with more than one yellowing stain of various origins. Even sitting curled on the couch watching awful television isn’t the same without another body to tuck into and to fall asleep on, and more times than he’d like to admit Harry has found himself clutching a pillow tightly as if it could substitute for the missing warmth that he craves so desperately. 

And all of the sudden, Harry likes blue again because the great wide blue full of salt and fish brought back his treasure. His heart feels full again, like the final missing puzzle piece has been found covered in dust under the couch and slotted into the anxiously waiting space that only its unique grooves can fill. His eyes don’t drip tiny drops of their own saltwater anymore, and he goes through fewer boxes of soft tissues, the kind that doesn’t make your nose raw. There are two bowls of sugary cereal on the table in the morning, two warm sandwiches hastily slapped together and stuffed into mouths in the afternoon, two plates of rosemary chicken and two glasses of wine in the evening. 

However, a pair of faded and torn camouflage pants still hangs above scuffed combat boots in the closet, their frayed hems dusted with gritty sand and mud. The pants are pushed deepdeepdeep into their abyss of a closet, but Harry can still feel their unwavering pull every day. He knows that one day; Louis will slide the pants back over his toned torso and lace up the boots with a sad smile, watery tears spotting his vision. And then Harry will rush into Louis’ chest and inhale sweet bursts of his boyfriend’s scent, tucking it away in the back of his overcrowded mind for lonely days where rain races down the windows and pounds on the roof. They will both stay there, knotted hopelessly in each others’ embrace as identical tears streak down their somber faces and plop onto Louis’ uniform and Harry’s jumper, leaving tiny pinpricks of saltwater behind. 

But for now, Harry likes blue.


End file.
